I once wrote a poem in the eighth grade. One about a man chained downed being tortured by his own mind. The kind you look at and think “That kid needs help.” My poem got published in a book filled with other poems not unlike my own. I suppose I felt proud. But mostly, I felt wildly insulted. Insulted that my family didn’t have a single human thing to say about it, just the bland and almost expected mentality of “What a cute drawing, I’ll put it on the fridge.” I was pissed that my obvious subconscious cry for help went completely unturned by my childhood pillars, my Fucking family.
And then a year later I regurgitated 60 pills onto the bathroom floor.
I don’t know, this was on my mind tonight.